


Strange Orbits

by goandcatchafallingstar



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, implied canonical major character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-07-30 10:31:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20095834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goandcatchafallingstar/pseuds/goandcatchafallingstar
Summary: Spock’s fascination with the invention is not based on current evidence of its capabilities. It is not logical, he knows, but since the Anam crystals were set within the inner workings of the machine, Spock has been in the grip of an absolute conviction that it is singing to him. The sense of it goes beyond the measurable sound that exists outside human perception; it resonates at the core of him, in blood and bone marrow.Spock does not know why he is so drawn to this siren song, but tonight he no longer wishes to resist it.***Spock activates a machine invented to assist with transdimensional retrieval of Enterprise personnel, with surprising results. A.K.A, original Jim visits aos Spock.I'm not tagging this for infidelity, although there's an established background relationship between original Jim and Spock here, as this particular encounter is very context specific and doesn't represent a breech of trust for them, but ymmv, so please avoid if this is likely to hurt you.





	1. Chapter 1

Spock walks the halls in the muted hours of Gamma shift.

His steps are rhythmic, his movements controlled and economical, full of absolute purpose.

His mind is chaos.

It has been 172 days and 12 hours since the death of his captain, and Spock is still unable to reconcile himself to this event, despite its impermanence. He cannot tolerate this empirical evidence of Jim’s mortality, or the memory of the bright heart of him snuffed out in the warp core.

The effect of Jim’s loss is radical; it strikes at the roots of him. It is not Jim’s gravity alone, though his death exerts a force Spock never imagined. Jim’s death is the final card that brings the house down, leaving Spock in the ruins of himself.

Jim’s return has not restored what Spock lost at the moment of his passing. It merely shored up what remains. Spock is only a shell constructed on an unstable foundation, its apparent integrity giving the lie to a precariously balanced state.

His mind is a wounded place that blooms with pain like a bruise under pressure. He brushes against the sites that were once points of connection, his mother and that other, older scar. There is a bitter sweetness to this hurt, the ache of memory. _We do not speak of her_.

The chasm at his heart is the inescapable fact that this latest loss shares a common factor with the loss of Vulcan, with the loss of his mother. Falling back to rendezvous with the fleet at the Laurentian system. Filing the report on Nibiru. Each decision logically determined. Each decision nothing less than catastrophic in its results. Logic has failed Spock, and what is left? He remembers the words of an old Earth poet his mother loved. _The foul rag and bone shop of the heart_.

Perhaps not so foul, after all. What would it mean, to relax those controls he still has left? Spock does not know what he would be, what he could be, if logic were not his foundation. Yet logic forcibly reminds him of its role in his losses. Logic, too, reminds him of the consequences of his two most notable failures to maintain _arie’ mnu_, passion’s mastery. The deadly force of his hands on Jim’s throat, of his fists on Khan’s flesh. Cataclysms, both, but of a kind whose destructive nature yields the possibility of new growth.

And so Spock finds himself here, in the transporter room, yielding to an impulse that has pressed in on him for 152 hours. The room is unstaffed in the habitual lull of ship’s night, with no one to see Spock as he inputs his access code to gain entry. Crossing the room, he approaches the device that has absorbed so many hours of time for the dedicated collective of Spock, Chekov, and Mr Scott. A tall grey metal archway, like a door into nowhere, its bulky control panel houses the synthesised Anam crystals that are its power source. To the human crew, Spock knows, the device is soundless, but it pulses and sings at the edge of his sensory perception.

The device was conceived in response to an incident four months prior: returning from the Halkan homeworld, a landing party comprised of Mr Scott, Doctor McCoy, Nyota, and the Captain, found themselves diverted to a violent alternate universe. Spock has his suspicions as to the identity of this place, but is unable to share his hypothesis. The temporary loss of the landing party, a landing party including so many important members of the crew, had disturbed Spock more deeply than anything since the Captain’s death.

Spock had not thought he still had it in him to feel so much.

After Jim's recovery, the flood tide of rage and undertow of hope had ebbed to nothing. Since then Spock had been numb, as if some vital part of him had ceased to function, deadening his senses.

The experience of living in this state is like seeing and hearing underwater, or watching events unfold through unbreakable glass. Nothing is quite real, and everything at a distance that never closes. Spock had carried out his duties with precision, born forward by the momentum of routine. There was no will left for anything beyond this comforting rhythm of the same. The fatigue this numbness brings is as deep as bone and familiar as breathing. It persists even now, the weight of it settling like an avalanche across Spock’s life. Nothing escapes it: all the social interactions, small and large, that had grown up within Spock’s life on the Enterprise have congealed. He no longer trades barbed arguments with the Doctor, a development that makes no contribution to shipboard harmony: in fact, it is clear that the Doctor regards it with no small amount of alarm. Spock does not play chess with the Captain. He eats little, and food and company both are without flavor.

And Nyota. Nyota had tried, but the desire to help, no matter how deeply motivated, is not the ability. Spock craves the human warmth and understanding Nyota offers so freely, and is entirely unable to accept it. The delicate balance of forces that enables him to persist cannot shift to accommodate her support. It is the thin end of the wedge that will break him open. Comfort is an unacceptable risk, but its denial has come at a cost to Spock and Nyota. Nyota, Spock knows, cannot see him like this without wanting to help, and cannot help but see how the temptation of her support, and his own inability to accept it, hurts Spock. The double bind had brought about the end of their relationship. Examining his own response, Spock had acknowledged only some relief that, this way, he might not cause her further pain. Privately, he considers that there is not enough of him left to sustain such an attachment.

Spock had not thought he still had it in him to feel so much. The loss of the landing party showed him his error, and the cracks in his foundation are spreading.

Mr Scott, too, has been troubled by the experience of another universe. Dissatisfied with the improbability of the conjunction of factors enabling their return by the narrowest of margins, Mr Scott had enlisted Spock and Chekov’s help in building the device that now stands in the transporter room. Mr Scott likes to call it the solution to a problem that is properly one of metaphysics, rather than physics. Extrapolating from Spock's knowledge of the Vulcan katra, the three of them have constructed a machine to assist with transdimensional retrieval of personnel. In theory, to put it crudely, the device has the capacity to attune itself to the frequency of an individual’s soul.

Doctor McCoy, still harboring suspicions of the standard transporter system, refers to this invention as the gate to the first circle of Hell. By preference, he remains as far away from the device as is physically possible within the confines of the room whenever he is obliged to visit.

Although the team of three have calculated that the device will work within the defined parameters, it has yet to undergo its final round of testing. Spock’s fascination with the invention is not based on current evidence of its capabilities, however. It is not logical, he knows, but since the Anam crystals were set within the inner workings of the machine, Spock has been in the grip of an absolute conviction that it is singing to him. The sense of it goes beyond the measurable sound that exists outside human perception; it resonates at the core of him, in blood and bone marrow.

Spock does not know why he is so drawn to this siren song, but tonight he no longer wishes to resist it. He rationalises the risk of activation as one that could only endanger himself, not the crew or their vessel. He lays a hand against the casing of the device, and feels something leap within it, like a pulse racing. With deft fingers, he adjusts the controls, his head tilted, as if to listen, though he is not guided by hearing, precisely, but his more inward sense. When he achieves the correct frequency, he cannot quite repress a shudder. It's a sensation that runs through the whole of him. He reaches out to release the last failsafe and sets the process in motion.

The device hums in a new key, with a leap that sounds like joy.

#

In the space of the archway, a humanoid form is appearing in a slow cascade of golden light. As the form sharpens into matter, Spock perceives it to be a human of mature years, marked in a solidity of figure and a face whose lines trace a history of good humor. His brown hair is a little unruly, and he’s looking down. At the moment the light dissipates, he looks up, straight at Spock like iron to a lodestone.

His eyes are golden brown and green. Spock doesn't know this man, has never met a human with these features. They stare at each other for an endless moment, Spock’s sense of time stuttering.

The moment breaks as the man smiles, slow and sure as honey dripped from a spoon.

“Spock! Spock, but how…?” He’s studying Spock’s face, intent, his smile growing wider at something he sees there when he says Spock's name. His voice trails off as he replaces words with movement, reaching out for Spock with both hands. He clasps Spock's upper arms.

The burst of emotions is immediate and intoxicating, overwhelming Spock’s fragile shields by main force. It's the adrenaline surge of curiosity, the sharp rush of surprise and the quicksilver flash of elation, bright as sudden sunlight. Running under and through these currents of feeling is love, with a depth and strength and weight that are like nothing Spock has ever known.

The blow is irresistible: Spock is knocked off balance. He feels the lurching sensation of the fall just long enough to brace for an impact that never comes. He's caught and held steady and he knows, has known since those hands made contact with the fabric of his uniform.

This is Jim.

Spock's mind shivers, and the world around him fades.

#

It's only a few seconds, he knows, before he recovers consciousness. He's still upright, aware of the body in contact with his, gathering him close, a physical sensation overlapping with the unmistakable touch of a familiar mind. Physical and telepathic senses offer unarguable evidence that Spock is cared for, the object of deep affection and worry.

Spock has kept himself in motion, untouchable, but he cannot resist this contact, and the sensation is as comfortable as warmth returning to frozen fingers.

He opens his eyes to meet a blur of green-gold, too close, and disorientating beyond the unexpected proximity. It's a sight that sends vision into conflict with telepathy. This hazel-eyed man is, and is not, Jim. Spock blinks slowly, and stares.

“Hey, are you alright? Spock, Spock, what's wrong? C’mon, let's get you to sickbay.”

Spock freezes. He shakes his head.

“Jim, I am all right.”

“Spock.” 

“I am functional. There is no need to trouble Doctor McCoy at this time.”

Jim shakes his head. “Your quarters, then.” The note of command in his voice is an undertone, but an unmistakable one. Spock closes his eyes just long enough to resign himself to compliance.

Compliance, as it turns out, is easy. Spock allows himself to be guided, Jim's arm warm around his shoulders. Yielding to this is a slow slide down a precipitous slope: Spock already suspects how impossibly hard it will be to climb back up, but he cannot stop now. Not yet.

In Spock's quarters, Jim sits him down, and orders him up a cup of spice tea. Their separation ends the barrage of mental stimulus. It should be enough to enable Spock to regain his balance, to begin to shore up his tattered shields, and yet the core of him is still unraveling, undone where Jim has touched him. Spock feels the loss of contact.

Jim comes back to him, setting the tea on the table. Steam curls a silent question into the cabin air. Jim stretches out a hand, and Spock feels its weight as a gentle pressure along his forearm.

"Spock, tell me. What's wrong?”

This time, Spock answers.

#

A Jim who is not Jim is, most logically, Spock's perfect confidant. There's so much that Spock wishes he could say to Jim, but cannot bring himself to share with his captain. He doesn't want his captain to entertain any doubt of his fitness to work and hold command, or to suspect the depth and character of the emotions provoked by his death.

He can, at least, begin to tell this Jim how much his losses — planet, mother, Jim — have undermined his logic. He can share something of his own unbalanced state. This little crack in Spock's facade is enough for Jim to draw him out further.

Jim doesn't push: he only listens, his presence warm as sunlight on a green shoot, stretching to break through soil.

Spock tells Jim in the simplest words, a story stripped down to raw elements. Reaching the device and the events it has precipitated, he finds himself cycling back to the tipping point. Jim. Jim dead in the warp core, his hand outstretched and untouchable.

Jim draws in a slow breath and smiles at him. His eyes are wet. For a long moment, there is silence.

“I don't know what's it's like to lose a planet, Spock. Or Amanda. Spock.” He stops, a moment of stillness to imagine the scale of a loss beyond calculation.

Spock thinks about another hand, outstretched, and the shape of a universe where his mother lives. He takes a breath and lets his eyes close to take the measure of pain and solace the thought contains. Jim’s waiting for him when he comes back to himself. What Jim doesn't know is a promise that, in another place and time, things are not as they are here. This is hope, but there is something more. Jim says,

“I know what it's like to lose part of your soul.”

Jim reaches out to touch Spock, already so close to him, with a quick, unconscious motion.

“In my universe, it was you.” Jim closes his eyes, and Spock can hear the memory of horror in his voice.

“I watched you die there. In the warp core. I couldn't stop it. I spoke words over your coffin and I sent you into the black.”

He's looking at Spock now.

“I know what it's like to lose you.”

Jim's fingers brush against his own, and again it's unconscious, a reflex born of long familiarity; the knowledge of another body always in proximity to your own. They look into each other's eyes and see the mirror image of a love and loss that cut down to the core of being. For a moment that loops out of time, they are locked together.

When the moment breaks, they move with instinct, as one.

The first kiss is an irresistible force, bringing others slipstreaming in its wake.

The first kiss doesn't feel like a first: it's as natural as breathing, and as necessary. As they shed their clothes slowly, between unhurried kisses with lips and fingers, the contact of skin on skin sets up a telepathic feedback loop between them. They move in preternatural synchronicity. There is only touch, with no distinction between the boundaries of bodies.

Each sensation reverberates, increasing in intensity and building until there is nothing but this.

The first kiss is an event horizon; there's no stopping now.

#

They wake in one another's arms, Spock's head resting on Jim's chest, one hand cupped to feel the beat of his heart.

The second time feels different, their movements a harmony in more distinctive notes. Spock is by turns swept up in instinct, touching Jim without hesitation, then caught by the strangeness of this intimacy, and of being touched with such tender and thorough familiarity by a lover he's known, and will know, for so little time.

Jim knows where to drag his teeth along Spock's skin, where to run gentle hands, and where to apply pressure with expert judgement, enough to make Spock moan, a keening sound he registers with shocked fascination.

Between intoxicating bursts of sensation, Spock's mind is reeling. He knows his own body with all the precision of Vulcan discipline, is capable of exercising the most fine-tuned control. He never knew it was possible to feel like this.

He embraces it, letting the feeling course through him, and chases the fierce pleasure of making Jim lose his words, lose his breath, as he tastes the salt on his skin.

Spock moves in a spiralling trail down Jim’s body, alternating kisses and soft, exploratory bites against the soft nub of each nipple, against the curves of pectoral muscles. Where his skin touches Jim’s, he can feel the lines of Jim’s desire in memory and anticipation. He inhales a teasing breath against the dark curls at Jim's groin, and leans in to bite the tender flesh of Jim’s inner thigh, first on one side, and then the other. He lingers there in a feint, darting the tip of his tongue out to taste before lunging back to swallow Jim to the root.

Spock saw a picture in one of his mother's books, years ago. Black ink on rare wood pulp paper, a figure at the foot of a ladder stretching to a distant moon (_I want! I want!_). Spock has wanted so much for so long. This, though, this at last is something he can have.

Afterwards, Jim tugs him close and smiles, warm as sunshine.

“You're so unmistakably you, but you're different too.”

He looks at Spock, considering. “You're as young as when I first knew you. Maybe a little younger. But it's more than that. You're the same metal tempered at a different heat.”

His smile is so bright.

Spock suppresses the sense of disquiet rising in him at the reminder that he cannot keep this Jim, this Jim who has breached the surface of his terrible isolation, whose presence surrounds him with love and desire. Who has given him moments of perfect understanding.

Spock thinks about his alternate self, who still has Vulcan, his mother, and Jim. He forces the emotion down; it's an ugly, bitter thing.

“What will he think of this, of you here?” He does not say, of us.

Jim’s smile grows brighter still.

“He's part of my soul, always. He knows I’ll come back, though you can bet he's not leaving it to chance. You never would.” He shakes his head, emphatic in his pride.

“He knows I'm safe, and this,” he says, touching Spock's arm, “you know this. I wouldn't be me if I could see you hurt without doing everything in my power to help, as long as you let me help.”

He smiles again, and the curl at the corner of his mouth tugs at something in Spock. He registers the physiological sensation in his stomach, like falling. Jim's smile is so bright, and he can't keep it. 

"Am I different like you, here?"

Spock can't speak, no longer able to suppress the sense of time elapsed since the arrival of this other, older Jim, and his mind stutters. 

This should have been reported to his captain, and Jim is nothing if not a highly perceptive individual. The gap of time will not escape him, and Spock can think of no explanation that will not bring the hours of heat and sweat and kisses spent in the arms of his captain’s alternate self directly to Jim’s attention.

Spock is not ashamed, but nor is he ready for this level of exposure. He closes his eyes for a moment, as if he could hold back what’s coming by will alone.

Age and the vagaries of an alternate timeline have not blunted the observational powers of the Jim in his immediate presence, either. Spock opens his eyes at the sensation of gentle fingers, brushing along his jawline.

“He’ll understand, you know.” Jim’s smile is warm.

“I do not share your confidence in this.”

“He’s literally me.” The smile twists into the shadow of a smirk, confidence, edged with a promise of seduction. “Tell him you couldn't resist our charms.”

Spock feels helpless. What Jim says is…not inaccurate, he is alarmed to discover, as he finds himself leaning into the curve of Jim’s palm, relishing the sensation of Jim’s thumb stroking across his cheek. But the prospect of explaining this susceptibility to his captain, to a Jim who is inarguably his friend, but has given no indication of particular sexual or romantic desire _for his First Officer, _is impossible to bear.

He gives in, for now, letting himself be drawn into another kiss. If this is all he will ever have of Jim, he is not ready to let it go.

Jim lifts his chin with a finger and looks him in the eye.

“Spock, trust me. It will be all right.”

Spock kisses him, and hopes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to those of you who were kind enough to read and follow this. It was not supposed to take this long to write, but life. Fwiw, part 3 should be shorter and finished sooner (famous last words, I know).

Spock finds the captain at breakfast, in the company of Doctor McCoy. Catching sight of Spock as he approaches, the doctor pauses to look him over. His gaze is sharp and assessing.

“Why, Mr Spock, don't tell me you actually slept late for once?” The doctor’s light tone fails to conceal the note of concern.

The captain’s head snaps up; his eyes narrow.

For a fraction of a second, Spock forgets to breathe. It’s an infinitesimal reaction, which the captain cannot possibly have noticed.

But he doesn’t look away, and there's something alert and wary in the way he's watching Spock, intent.

Spock makes a tactical decision to ignore both the captain's attention and the doctor’s opening gambit. He feels like a prey animal in a wide open space, acutely aware of his own vulnerability under so many watching eyes. The crew are not indifferent to this exchange, and though the hum of conversation around him continues unabated, Spock knows they are listening.

He opts for the direct approach.

“Captain, there is a matter requiring your attention in conference room two.”

Jim frowns. “Something wrong? Why didn't they comm me?”

“There is no danger to the ship, sir.” He pauses, the words heavy in his throat. “And yet it should not wait longer.”

#

Spock silently curses his ill luck in finding the captain with McCoy on this occasion, although he's aware that the statistical probability was against him.

McCoy is, of course, coming with them, though for no reason that Spock can discern besides inveterate curiosity and an unerring instinct for events in the making. Spock had hoped, against all logic, to avoid any of this coming to McCoy’s attention.

Spock admits to himself, he should have known.

#

When the doors open on the small conference room, the captain looks from the seated figure within to Spock, eyes full of suspicion.

“Spock, report. Who is this, and how did they get onto my ship?”

“Captain.” Spock pauses, tone careful. He's holding himself in tension, as if poised on the edge of an abyss. “You are aware of my counterpart, known as Ambassador Selek.”

He cannot look at the captain. His eyes are fixed on a spot on the wall, twenty centimetres to the left of the captain’s head. He nevertheless registers the shift in the captain’s stance as he processes Spock's words and intuits what's coming.

“Captain, this is Captain James Tiberius Kirk.”

There's a dawning light of rage in the captain's eye, immediately shuttered as his face sets into a mask of absolute formality and his posture straightens. His tone is precise as laser surgery, his voice warm as Uranian winter.

“Explain.”

Spock does. It's a sparse account, stripped of the illogical factor of the machine’s strange pull. He omits, too, the details of his hours with Jim. He's under no illusion that this will fool the captain, but he can't bring himself to say the words. The bare appearance of plausible deniability is the limit of his hopes now.

When he stops speaking, he waits, anticipating a response from the captain. But the captain only shakes his head with a small, unconscious motion, and looks at Doctor McCoy, who has been scanning their guest with his medical tricorder for some time now. The doctor meets his gaze and nods.

“It's true, Jim. The readings confirm it.”

Spock sees the muscles in the captain's jaw tighten. Kirk exchanges a long look with the doctor.

McCoy looks unhappy, and becomes noticeably more so under the captain’s icy stare. For a moment, he turns his head to look at the focus of this uncomfortable interview: Jim, who has remained seated and silent through Spock's diplomatically edited account. Jim’s expression is concerned and slightly rueful.

The silence in the room is becoming increasingly awkward.

McCoy closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. He draws a long, slow breath, shoots an annoyed glance at the captain, and turns to Spock.

“Commander, since you’ve taken it upon yourself to operate that infernal device before it's been cleared, I’m ordering you to sickbay for a full panel of tests. With me now, please.”

As he follows the doctor out, Spock hears the captain address his counterpart.

“I’d like to have a word with you.”

#

Jim feels the anger under his skin like ice and fire. He’s been so worried about Spock for so long. Hell, _everyone_ has been worried about Spock. He’d shut them all out with the efficiency of a hermetic seal.

On the bridge and in the laboratory, Spock’s work remains impeccable. But there’s something in the way he carries himself, the tension of a structure at breaking point. Before Khan, there’d been a current of sharp curiosity, a bright intellectual charge animating Spock’s Vulcan discipline. Lately, though, it’s as if he’s been hollowed out from within, the bare facade of a building preserved from the destruction of its interior.

Lately, Jim hasn't been able look at him without an undermining sense of fear. Something is very wrong, but Spock won't let him help. Spock won't let anyone help.

Jim knew when he saw him at breakfast that something had changed. He couldn't figure out what, but it was there. He’d felt it run through him, gooseflesh stirring on the nape of his neck.

Jim has his explanation now, and if his other self has put Spock at risk, he doesn't know what he’ll do.

His alternate is still sitting, chair angled away from the long table in the room. His posture is a little askew; Jim feels a surge of irritation he knows is hypocritical.

He's watching Jim intently, and the expression on his face is slightly pained.

Jim doesn't realise how hard he's staring back until the old man flinches, just slightly, and looks away.

Jim feels a vicious twist of satisfaction in his gut at this.

He waits.

His counterpart shifts uncomfortably. The silence is Jim’s weapon.

“Look, I…It wasn't what you think.”

“Oh? Please, enlighten me.”

“He needed me. He needed me and I couldn't have done anything else.” There's conviction in his voice, augmented by the reflexive authority born of years of command.

It's absolutely insufferable.

“Pure altruism, then? Is that what you're calling it?” Jim can't bear to look at him, this older version of himself who’s willing to act on all his basest instincts. Who hasn't learned, and doesn't care who he hurts. The living proof that he won't do better. Knowledge is an ugly sensation; it settles like lead in his belly.

“You can't play yourself, however many years you’ve got on me, _old man. _You took advantage of him!”

There's an expression of pure, incredulous shock on his counterpart’s face for a second, then it shifts into sympathy, and Jim wants to bite his own tongue out.

“No. Never. I wouldn't do that, not to him.” He takes a long, slow breath. “He was…so alone, and I knew I could help him.”

“Help him how?” Jim punctuates the question with an incredulous hand gesture and a flat stare. “With your cock? How does that help anything?”

His counterpart winces. “Kid, please. Don't make this any weirder than it has to be.”

He pauses, searching for the right words. His tone is a little too gentle. “It wasn't the sex. That was…a side effect.”

Jim can't dignify this with an answer. He waits.

“It's not a preference. You need to understand that. I could get through to him because I’ve known Spock for more than twenty years and I know how to call him on his bullshit when he needs it. That's not a thing that came easily — my god, there's an understatement if there ever was one — and you don't know how. Not yet.”

“So what, one interdimensional booty call and he’s fixed now? You expect me to buy that?”

“I told you, it wasn't the sex. And no, not nearly. It's going to take time.”

Jim doesn't want to say it. He doesn't.

But he thinks about sealed doors and unbreakable glass, and he can't do anything else.

“Will you stay? Would you stay for him?”

His counterpart looks at him, and it takes everything Jim has to hold his gaze. He thinks he knows now what Bones means when he says Jim sees too much, under the weight of that uncanny hazel stare.

“He doesn't need me. He needs you.”

Jim’s face twists, and his counterpart raises his hand to stop the words.

“He does. All the things he's lost, you're the tipping point. You dying.”

His eyes pin Jim again, intense and unrelenting. “You need to understand what that means. I’ve never seen him hurt like this.”

He stops and swallows once. His voice is low, each word spoken with careful gravity.

“It's so much more than your death, but that's the linchpin. That's where he fell apart. It means you can help him start to rebuild.”

“What makes you think he won't shut me out again?”

His counterpart’s smile is crooked, a wry twist tugging up the corner of his mouth.

“No scientist worth his salt would cling to a defunct theory, and Spock?” He closes his eyes on a soft huff of fond amusement. “He knows he needs you now, and he knows that you know it, or will, once you get over yourself. It's not in him to deny it past the point of proof.”

The certainty in his words hits Jim like reflected light in a darkened room, so impossibly bright that it hurts. In his mind, the afterimage burns, insistent, reminding him of the feeling that's grown a myriad of tiny roots in him since the ship set out on its mission. It's grown and spread so far, threaded through every part of him, so large that he can't pull back to look at it, even if he could bring himself to try.

He hasn't dared, but if his counterpart is right…

The enormity of hope might just swallow him whole. 

#

It's half an hour into beta shift when the call comes through. His own stint on the bridge complete, Jim’s visiting the transporter room to check on the progress of the team working on sending his counterpart back to his own universe. This may, on reflection, have been a tactical error. Chekov is geeking out over the data from the successful trial and the calculations needed for this new application of the metaphysical engine, but he still finds time to sneak surreptitious glances at Jim, his counterpart, and Spock. Jim is almost certain that Chekov’s genius extends to a pretty shrewd idea of recent developments in Spock's personal life.

On the surface, at least, Spock appears calm. Each movement is measured, even graceful in its precision. But, if you’ve been watching closely (and Jim has to admit that he has), there's a new quality to this motion. The feel of it is as different as hearing music in live performance: the same notes have new presence and urgency. Spock's _there_ in a way he hasn't been for a long time, dragging on perception as if the world bends around his weight.

Spock, normally the keenest of observers, seems not to notice Chekov’s distraction. Jim suspects this is not a failure of observational skills, but rather a dedicated effort to preserve the illusion that there are any illusions about what happened between Spock and his counterpart.

Jim is aware that the way he's been staring at Spock is probably not the best way to dissuade Chekov of the validity of any conclusions he may or may not have drawn. He's cursing himself for the misstep when the comconsole chimes.

“Captain, we’ve got an incoming transmission from New Vulcan. It’s Ambassador Selek, sir. He says…he says he needs to speak with your guest?”

Scuttlebutt hadn't caught wind of their visitor then, though that couldn't last.

“Thank you, Lieutenant Uhura.” Jim looks at his counterpart, alert and at attention. He inclines his head to the wall-mounted vidscreen. Jim gives a sharp nod.

Jim feels the image on the screen like a blow to the chest. The older Spock looks frail in a way he’d never imagined possible. Despite his age, hell, maybe even because of it, Spock had seemed to share the quality of endurance that belongs to stars: constant across universes, with fragile humans like Jim in his orbit.

Looking at him now, Jim knows that apparent permanence was just a trick of perception, a comforting delusion he’d wanted, so badly, to believe.

The younger Spock is still a handsbreadth from breaking point, albeit rallying. The elder’s mortality is in his eyes, marked in his body and the set of his face.

Jim’s counterpart makes a sound like the air’s been punched out of his lungs.

They're looking at each other, and it's as if there's no one else in the room.

Quietly, trying to drag his gaze away from the face on the screen, Jim makes it so.

#

They don’t go far. In the hallway outside they conference room, they stand in silence.

There’s a cold sensation spreading in Jim’s belly, creeping in delicate increments like frost on glass. He can’t look at Spock; he holds him in his peripheral vision. The minutes stretch.

When Jim’s counterpart steps out of the room, he stumbles. His eyes are wide, and rimmed with red.

He turns his face to Spock and, for a moment, he stares. The sound of his breath catching in his throat is impossibly loud in the still air.

Spock steps in close to him, and he folds in on himself with a soft noise. Spock wraps one arm around him and walks him back into the room.

Behind him, a passing crew member stops dead, eyes widening in shock. Jim finds himself thinking, as if from very far away, that it should be funny. That it would be funny, if the cause didn’t feel like a hairline crack in the fabric of the universe.

He takes a breath and blows it out again, and heads back into the room, Chekov following close behind.


End file.
